


The Beginning of the End

by Abhorable



Series: Time [1]
Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game), Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: "daddy myers", Blood and Gore, Depression, F/F, F/M, Gore, If You Squint - Freeform, Knifeplay, M/M, big sad, gender neutral reader, hurt comfort, i have to write all these tags pray for me kids, i like to think i'm god but i kinda suck so watch all these assholes cry, i'm always sad i hope this resonates with y'all, if you continue to squint you can see some light choking stuff, if you have tag suggestions please tell me, michael is tree, please ignore my dumb tags i'm tired ok, slowburn, umbra stole that from me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-01 07:26:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16280231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abhorable/pseuds/Abhorable
Summary: So ready, yet so unprepared.Reader is a horror fanatic who's spent a long time looking into the Myers case, and has been itching to examine the home of the original drama.





	1. Finale

For the Autumn enthusiast, there is nothing more understandable than, of course, an insatiable love for the stupid season. Crisp air, crisp leaves, dying grass. The world blanketed in a chill of red and orange leaves, making noise no matter where you stepped. At least for the temperate climate.  
Which, I've luckily found myself in.

Haddonfield, Illinois. Media attention swarming the place since Michael Myers, at age six, managed to stab his sister to death, proceeded to break out of the looney bin years later and attempt murder on his OTHER sister. It was absolutely extravagant, the sort of story to instill a certain bonechilling fear to children who found themselves unlucky enough to Trick-or-Treat without supervision or far past bedtime.  
But as fantasy as it seemed, the stories had their genuine roots. Michael was a murderer. A well known one, who didn't take shit. He'd killed many just to get to the throat of Laurie, and would likely do so again.  
And I'd be damned if the sudden adrenaline rush of the situation wasn't interesting.

Settling and resettling on what to do, the plan itself is rather simple. Take a look at the dampened and elderly house which once belonged to the Myers family. To see the decay, what had caused it, and hopefully not run into a doppleganger killer, or better/worse yet, Michael himself.  
As far as I'm aware, he's been behind the padded walls of Smith's Grove with a full Straight Jacket, but there's always a chance.  
That's fortunately where the large pocket knife tied to the sleeve of my hoodies' arm comes in handy.  
I've planned this little trip to Lampkin's most notorious dwelling for months, if not a year. No precaution is too high for investigating this little hovel. A small knapsack for a phone, standard 2008 camera, and last but not least, a spare pair of steel-toe boots and heavy-duty thermal socks. The knife tied to the hoodie's sleeve was a precaution, but a standard one.  
At least if I dropped it, it'd go into the arm's muscle or back to my control.

 

But eventually I'd have to stop preparing, and actually go. No time to waste, seeing as it was the morning of Hallow's Eve.

From the tobacco encrusted motel I'd rented, I've been thriving for a week now. Doing whatever last bits of research into the house's history before heading out, even though I've read it all a thousand times. Though greasy, though empty, pizza boxes strewn about thoughtlessly on the floor to whatever parasites made their way through the carpeting and into the cardboard.  
I sit mindlessly, left hand drumming each finger upon the nightstand where my beloved laptop has been set. I'm fairly certain that it's not even wood, and just has the texture painted over it. Years of pent up grime and dirt show, gathering to the corners rather than fall into the grooves. The color isn't anything spectacular, either.

Mindlessly beginning to drum recently cut fingernails onto the fake wooden surface once again, my eyes once again scan the old Myers house address. If I gave up now, then I'd be devastated. Never having the chance to return. Besides, it was Halloween. There was nothing that wasn't precisely perfect about the occasion.  
I settled down a moment later, not wanting to overjoy myself before the right time even arrived. Flipping the laptop shut, I merely waited with open eyes and mind, for sleep to take me and hold me within the grasp of an unknown world.

And sleep took me as it always did, though accompanied by the light overjoyed terrified waiting. An alarm wasn't needed, for it's hard to sleep that long with such vigor.

Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I began to drunkenly search for the lamp's light-switch. Gazing for any sort of light, the yellowed plastic encompassing the blue numbers of the clock read a solid "10:27 PM". Triumphantly flicking the light on, preparation is in order.  
All black outift, bag of clothes and camera. Phone satchel. And a good amount of adrenaline for zealous excitement.

Unlocking the room door, keys tucked into pocket, I left into the night.  
Haddonfield goes dark much quicker than most other places. All of the Michael stigma with years of resent and anger, each time something seems safe, another horror arises. There's nothing to be spared.

But as I crept through each yard, past fences and the like, it was unmistakably quiet. Not a sound stirred, even the whistling of the night gave exposition to any soul out and about. I was alone. The foggy glow of Jack 'O Lanterns left out on porch-steps to be my only guide, as I saw the turn to Lampkin Lane.  
I was here after years of investigative fantasies, and more quickly than I thought would be reasonable, I was upon the doorstep. Chipped paint decorated the dying lawn, caked in thick layers of dirt and wet leaves. A few windows were smashed, and then boarded up with decaying wood. The front door simply wasn't an option. 

The compost bin of a lawn was wet enough to cover any footstep issues I would've had normally with crunchy leaves, so into the backyard I crept. A smile plastered on my face.  
Luckily enough, the back kitchen window had been left unboarded and unbroken. And open.  
Red flags went off. Some group of, well, let's be honest, who even knows anymore, people had headed inside and probably made the place disgusting after years of mistreatment. So sad to see everything go to waste like this. But my night isn't over yet. My fun is still to be had.  
And so, I hopped inside. Foot against the kitchen sink, I pulled myself in. A thick musk of carrion scented the place. Musty air over the years had cleared most of it out, but the scent remained. Untouched by time, as the cracks in the place had been so carefully sealed as to not let it desecrate the rest of the house.  
It was just an abandoned building, without much else to it. Before long, it was apparent how each room had been picked clean of valuables. No scrap left. only the creaky wooden boards of long left neglect. Subtle nightly creaks weren't all too exciting as each room became documented on the camera, to savor for later on some corkboard which would be dug up by a collector much like myself.

It was only then when I'd heard the creaks from the room adjacent mine. The last in the entire house, and I was bent on exploring every nook and cranny to have such wonderful photos.  
When I put my hand to the doorknob, turning it just as slowly as the others as to not alert any suspicious activity from inside the house, I wasn't expecting to feel a hard thump as the door collided with something.  
Something strong enough to keep it closed, but remaining with soft feeling.  
That old smell of decaying meat suddenly didn't feel too out of place.  
I was the intruder here.

The smug grin plastered on my face all night slipped into a blank one. Someone else was most certainly here.

With clammy hands, my fingers slipped off the door handle. Who was in there? Would they be mad if I was in here? Was it a police officer?  
I didn't have long to think before my back was against the wall, as another thump came from behind the door as it began to open. I couldn't think straight. So there, I stood, hands quivering and eyes staring at the base of the door.  
A man's carcass laid on the ground, a heavy red flowing from several knife wounds as a heavy rusted scent filled the air. And a pair of heavy work shoes behind them.  
A figure, much taller than my own, obscured any outside light from the window behind them. And eyes just keep going upwards, don't they? Work grade pants, a janitor's suit. I needn't look much further for the white mask. Stained with years of neglect, dirt, and messy locks to follow. Six, nearly seven feet tall. 

Out of all years to be here, he was here now.  
At least I wouldn't be the first to fall this evening. And most likely not the last.  
Grim but true, I'd be left to die at my obsession to see every last room. 

His strides were long, uneven and insect-like. Terrifying. His hands were death as he reached for my throat, while I stood helpless as he snatched and began to squeeze, my dangling legs kicking in any attempt to save myself.  
Until the swinging knife tied to my sweater brushed my hand.

Taking the fear of getting stabbed into account, it's reasonable to bring a knife to a knife-fight. How unexpected.  
And so, the plunge of taking the weapon and jamming it right into his neck was more or less unexpected. A spurt of crimson dotting the wall as I removed the blade, his hand letting me go on chain reaction.

I fell to the floor, legs in a more or less natural position so I could get up. 

But I couldn't move.  
A blanket of saliva in my mouth, I had no choice to open it and attempt to scream. Though nothing escaped my lips, save for the waterfall of fluid dripping out of my mouth. The fresh scent of carrion and rust was far too much to handle.  
So, my body decided now would be the most reasonable time to remove all the contents of my stomach until I was hunched over the ground, spewing up a bitter-sour yellow bile. Which, didn't help the smell.

Michael was still standing over me, but all I wanted was for this stupidity to end. A futile attempt to escape was made, but bodily function had kept me from escape once again.  
It wasn't worth the struggle.  
It wasn't worth the time an energy of a meaningless fight.

But Michael didn't care. He only stared down, tilting his head as his hands grasped for my neck, pulling me from the pool of vomit. He shook, and shook, spittle dribbling down my lip as I grinned once more.  
I'd die a fanatic's death. Air was getting harder and harder to obtain, tears forming only to blurr what I had left of my fading vision.


	2. Middle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so, it goes further.

The brilliant streams of sunlight through the window often had been homely. Therapeutic. Overall soothing, and helpful to such a degree that it would stir me from an eight point five hallucinational trip of hell.  
A dull throbbing in the neck, hand pressing light on it. Stings like a motherfucker, so it's best not to even lightly brush. Probably having been there long enough to turn from a rosy red to the familiar blue and purple splotch.

That was, of course, if I even was alive anymore.  
Begrudgingly taking my fingers up to my neck, I winced at the sudden pressure, letting out an audible hiss. I could certainly still feel pain. I pressed the ice-cold, slightly sticky, fingers to the edge of my jaw where, just as prevalent as ever, a quiet thumping prevailed.

I was alive. Even if I was lying on my side, a thick and inconsistent stream of bile-drool stemming from my mouth while I lay in pure, sore agony. Though there was no true vomit, only the other beauty, just the thick yellow substance. Taste of bile heavy and bitter in my mouth, I sat up half-way just to spit. At least the slight dilution would help for now.

Stranger still, I was alive. My hearing only slightly buzzed, as no sounds could really be made, but my eyesight, breathing and everything else left perfectly intact.  
And I'd been spared by Michael Myers. The man who has no discernable motive or emotion for killing. He spares none but the truly innocent, babies and toddlers. Which I, for one, am not.  
That in itself is reason to be on edge. 

Heavy musk of the house sinking into my own clothes, I am entirely alone.  
Or so it seems.  
Michael could be hiding around every corner, slunk in the back of any room. Hiding. Waiting. Preying in a game of cat and mouse, set up and made to predate anything primal. Ready to kill.

But he couldn't be that easy to figure out. Having never spoken past a day of his sixth birthday, the strong and silent type would be an understatement.  
He weilds a knife, his own terrifying figure, and immortality so long as his sister lives as well. So does he crave death or crave the thrill of the hunt? Would my questions be answered by anything other than a blade to my throat? I'd never know for certain.

My aching back didn't help. Lying face up, statuesque and clearly placed like this by Michael. Perfectly. Precise, though to some degree messy. Wiping the sleep from my eyes with my knucles as to not get the dried vomit in my eyes, I started around for any sort of answer.  
Another figure next to me might have some sort of answer.  
Though, as I sat up to get some sort of explanation from them, it was more than clear what had happened.

Their body stayed as the palest of moonlight, only deepening in color to a heavy cherry red where flesh met the rotting floorboards. Their head had been more or less placed where it should be, though twisted around at least twice. The skin looked ready to tear and split at any given moment, to set loose a flurry of congealed blood.  
The face with grim expression, all blush drained from it having taken heavy residence likely near or on the floor. A shriek, encompassed in the snapshot of time, stolen in frozen horrific beauty on the face.  
Fucking horrifying. This kind of home décor is fucking horrifying.

Now with the high ground, I have every opportunity to examine my surroundings.  
Just another fucking room in the dull, brooding home.  
Had I not been terrified out of my goddamned mind, praying to whatever is out there that Michael's mercy would last even a mite longer, I would have been bored and filled with the need to stab myself with my knife.

Shit.  
Where was my knife? My only defense in this damn home wasn't on my person? I was fucked.

Eyes frantically darting from any possible items in the room, my satchel and bag sat in the dead center. Untouched. Sweater left mechanically folded on top of the stack.  
Scrambling to get to my belongings, I half crawled towardd them, with any hope that noise would be subtle enough to allow me to repossess my items. And my knife had still been tied by the handle to the sleeve.  
Though my phone was long dead, I still had it. It wasn't smashed to bits, and neither was my camera.

Michael Myers. The undecided lunatic known only to spare the truly innocent, limited to babies and very young children. Has spared my life. An anomaly. I wasn't pure. He should've snapped my neck, not forced me unconscious and left me in a room.  
And, even better, for, whatever unforsaken reason, given me all of my items back without question.  
That's oddly sweet for a masked murderer. 

But I had been left to ponder further, and further.

The rusted creaking of the door hinges snapped me from my sense of delusional wonder, into more sudden terror. As the door cracked open, my eyes following hastily to what lay behind, he was even more terrifying in the daylight.  
His hands coated in a thick shade of browned red, each crease between the fingers having been uncleaned for years. And of course, that janitor's suit of his suffered the same. Creased only in certain directions to allow for his mechanical movement, he stood and stared. From the few voids of his mask, nothing was visible from within the inky blackness. His porcelain mask ripped, stained with grime, and even slightly burnt on the mangled mass of hair.  
And he didn't do anything.  
I sat there in solitary fear, searching for anything off about his features. As he probably did with mine. 

Without a moment's notice, he cracked the door open further with a light push, turned on his heel and left.  
Just.. gone.

And I sat there like an idiot, taking this overly generous offer for granted.  
Scrambling to my feet, I snagged my sweater and instantaneously slipped into the fabric. Though cool against my skin now, I'd be warm once more. I wondered fleetingly if it was a miracle I hadn't died of hypothermia in my sleep.

I wasn't dead yet. Though suspicious as it was, I didn't have time to continue to ponder like a dumbass. Hastily grabbing my things, I wobbled into the hallway and back down the stairs.  
Making my way back through the house, I stumbled back to the kitchen. Only to find, to mostly my heavy dismay that the kitchen window was closed now. Maybe even re-sealed. And that was my only known enterance and exit until I found a wall safe enough to burst through, or maybe another window.

The heavy presence of someone standing behind me wasn't really expected. I could feel the hairs on my neck tense as he tilted his head, moving in closer with heavy, unpredictable breathing.  
A solid minute of this fresh hell was enough to prepare me for his leaving, but he didn't. So I took a step forward, and snapped myself around to face him.  
He stood hunched over, confining himself slightly for the sole purpose of scaring the shit out of me while still standing there, breathing loud enough to be heard from where I now was. 

I wasn't in any place to judge him. At least not when I'd broken into his home, interrupted a murder, and then threw up on his floor.  
Granted, he wasn't able to judge either. At least not when he'd been murdering someone and nearly snapped my neck.  
Or was I overthinking this?

Another moment of silence. Probably due to the fact I'm scared out of my mind, and Michael just chooses the route of a mute.  
Did I even need to say anything when the amount of answers will come to nothing? I don't even know whether or not my voice will be well enough to speak.

"Thank you," it's quiet. Rocky. Worn from the night lacking speech and probably being nearly choked to death. Though, despite this, Michael begins to stand back closer to his full height, just watching.

This is his most notable trait by far. He just sits there like a fucking log and doesn't do jack shit. What a perma virgin.  
And so, another twenty minutes of Michael staring at me, and I, him.

Honestly this isn't the most bored I've been in the Myer's house so far. But it's occurred to me that this is the hungriest I've been. Any sort of need for food was sanctioned off by that delicious smell of vomit and crusted blood on my hands. Which I doubt would even be removed soon.  
Does Michael even choose to eat outside of captivity?  
As much as it pained me to admit it, I was the one in captivity with that boarded up window. I wasn't going anywhere fast until I found an out, and I'd probably die of dehydration or starvation before that came close to happening.

"Hey," my voice remained as hoarse as it was the first time I spoke. "Do you happen to...eat?"

He didn't answer. Just stood there, breathing. This was futile. Did he not understand me? Or was he just normally like this?

That's surely infuriating. The least he could do is answer me with a nudge of the leg, or something.  
I may have found him fascinating, but this wasn't why.

Beginning to turn and walk away, I could feel his presence behind me as he followed. I'd explored the house previous, in all of it's sickeningly rotten crevices. And, for sure, there was nothing to do here.  
Except sitting down on the once-living-room floor and watching the watcher, simply bored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so basically  
> i'm monky
> 
> hope y'all enjoyed :)  
> i hope to finish the final chapter on the 30th so i can upload it on Halloween  
> might do more in drabbles  
> also will take requests for other slashers and the like?


	3. Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who would've thought?

Michael is boring as shit.

It's not like I came here to see him. I came here to see a decrepit old house, go "wow that's a decrepit old house" and then leave.  
Its roughly noon and I still haven't left yet. He won't let me.

His breathing is uneven, broken, rarely consistent and utterly exasperating. It's a lot to ask for someone to just stop breathing, seeing as it's probably one of the few reasons he's alive, but Michael's on a whole other level.  
It's worthy enough to ask someone to genuinely stop breathing, and feel no regret over such an action. It's genuinely that abhorrent.

Through the five hours I've sat upon the floor, sometimes changing position to keep my legs from falling asleep. He hasn't left. He just...stands there. Like a total creep. I was well aware of this before, and I had dogshit intentions of meeting him.  
Increasingly taking a slight step every few minutes, he's made his way from the doorframe of the room to about three feet from me.  
He began to crouch down, nearly perfectly imitating those shitty Slav Squat memes, heels perfectly planted on the floor as he lowered himself to my level.

His breathing is even louder. Does a latex mask really need to amplify your breathing that fucking much?  
Apparently so, because this is loud as shit.

Leaning further towards me, it's difficult to see his eyes. But they're certainly in there. The glint of some sort of light reflecting off of them dictates that somewhere in there, he does indeed have eyes. And most likely a human face. More human in that animalistic humanity than most people possess, psychopathic or not, he puts off a very disturbing vibe.

Snaking a bloodied hand closer to me, there I sit. A deer in the headlights, essentially at his mercy.  
I suppose I have been since I threw myself through his doors and into his home.  
He places a light hand upon my cheek, surprisingly warm fingers dusting my face. Testing the waters as he begins to move his hand closer, pressing and sliding his hand under my face, disregarding the chill of my own skin.  
He presses onwards with a light caress, very careful.  
It was as if Michael had gotten a new pet, and was curiously suspicious of how much petting they could even take before scrambling back into whatever hovel they crawled out of. He was far too gentle for someone who, the night previous, may have strangled me.  
His hand, though, slipped against the bruise on my neck, and I winced, recoiling from the sudden touch. Luckily enough, he took this as a time to completely back off. With his hands, anyway.

And here I thought he didn't have well respecting morals! Haven't we all been shocked today.  
He starts again though, with both hands and miraculously, an even lighter touch. Each only pressed against the face, not daring to go much further downwards.  
Michael was a fucking furnace. A wealth of warmth in this near-freezing Illinois home.

"How are you so fucking warm," My voice is at least the littlest bit more confident to work, but Michael's hands go limp after I begin to speak my question. "It's like... forty degrees or something."  
He stares. And stares. So I stare back.

Giving my right cheek a light rub with his thumb, he didn't respond.

If I even had any remaining doubts that he wasn't the real Michael Myers, past that corpse upstairs, which he'd most certainly made a person into a corpse, the fact he wasn't answering genuinely important questions warded the same idea.

"I'll let you hold me if you let me steal your warmth in this godforsaken house of the frozen." Michael's thumb stopped swirling in that circular motion. "I'm fucking cold."

At least it was true. The bite of the cold air essentially encompassed most of the house, seeing as it had genuinely no heating system, or barely any insulation for that matter.  
He pulled his hands from my face, and just as I was about to protest, he stood back up. And just stood there.

"What."

His arm outstretched to leave his palm open to me. Grabbing onto those fire fingers, he pulled me up.  
Dragging me back through the house and up the stairs.

Essentially throwing me into the room across from the one I ended up sleeping in last night, it's evident there's no windows. Or anything besides the door, to be honest. Not a viable escape route.  
He begins to curl up on the floor, those gangly spider limbs of his wrapping around essentially nothingness. His knees were bent, pretty normally to be bones, though his hands rested on them abnormally, forcing his elbows outwards in what looked less than comfortable.

It's cold as fuck. I am most likely going to have chapped lips and everyone knows how godawful that is. If I didn't throw myself against the warmth of a masked murderer, who had essentially invited me to cuddle against him to steal his warmth, I would most likely die.  
A flimsy sweater won't protect you from anything in the November weather of Illinois.  
Well. You only live once, I suppose.  
And it's not like I didn't blatantly ask for this.

Hesitantly at first, I sit next to him. He is a wealth of ungodly heat. The man behind the bush, a cuddler. Not what I would have personally guessed, but at least my right side isn't the ice-block it once was.  
He doesn't really do anything else to initiate contact. Just keeping up with that heavy breathing.

"Here-can I-" I began to move his arm up, which didn't really seem to get a reaction other than a hitch of breath on his already completely wronged breathing, so I pulled it around my shoulders for that bit of extra warmth.  
Michael just continues to sit there. Because he is a tree.  
My hands began to do that stupid tingly thing, where all the flesh was too cold to function but now being exposed to heat they were still too cold to function.

This fucking sucks.  
I can't even use my damn hands.

His arm that isn't lazily draped around my side has slipped over his chest so that his hand can continue to touch my face.  
He's shockingly gentle for a man who nearly killed me, what else is new. But if anything's lucky, it's that he just didn't snap my neck. Maybe it wasn't even luck at all, and he kept me around on purpose.  
Which was most likely the case.

Brushing his fingers lightly against my face, he stays far away from my neck this time.  
But I am still just as stiff as a board. The moment I sat up against him, I knew he had strength far more inhuman than any doctor had ever described. Tense and terrified, I'm only doing this for warmth. Sure.

If I was even given the option not to be in this house, I would have sooner rolled with that. Ideally I would have left by now, found some Denny's to hide in until I warmed up, and went right the fuck home.  
There was no getting out of this when Michael Myers had, for whatever reason, decided to spare me.

His arm squeezed me lightly as he continued to breathe as loud as ever, nonetheless, bringing me the slightest bit closer to him. With the cold finally dissipating off of my face, things are starting to get better.  
The damp wood of the house bothered me from the moment I initially stepped inside, but Michael sure as hell didn't smell like the rest of his surroundings. He very strongly smelled like the crisp air, and nutmeg. With a heavy dosage of hospital clearance sanitary wipes, just faintly masked by the spice.

I'm not all too sure how to feel about that, to be entirely honest.  
He breathes just as heavy as ever, and I'm left to lay in his arms until I'm warm enough to help myself.

For being ensnared by a murderer, besides the consistent fear of being thrown into a chokehold at any given moment, this is really enjoyable.

I hadn't even realized I'd fallen asleep until I could feel myself rubbing at my eyes, the light sting of bile crusted fingers as I wiped the sleep from them.  
I felt excellent. Save for the copious amounts of blood and vomit on my hands, the frozen air around me just to chill my skin, I still felt fine.  
Hungry as shit, but all together, fine. Every strain on my muscle gone. I wasn't doing bad at all, no sir.

Pulling my arm to rub at my neck, a quiet hiss escaped my lips. And in this moment, with the sudden movement of another person next to me, it was evident that Michael was still here. I didn't even look for him, because I'm fucking stupid.  
He's gone back to being more wound up than a spring, and has instantly brought his hand to my face once again.

"Sorry," I can feel my face going back from the contorted expression of pain, to one of resting fear. Michael doesn't budge. Why'd he even get up? "I forgot."

He brought his hand up again, and I mostly expected him to prod and pet at my skin, though instead I felt him gingerly petting my hair.  
Didn't he like to steal hair in his files or something?  
There's no sudden yanking to prove otherwise, so there's no real telling.

"Okay, I know I asked earlier but," he perked up to listen. "Do you seriously have any food? You're human just as much as me. At least I think so. I'm hungry as hell."  
"Wait, please don't bring me a dead animal if you go out to get any. Just please fucking don't."

I spent the next few minutes peppering him with questions on whether or not he had food, trying my best to evade the "can I leave" questions. I'd rather not risk that.  
Michael listened intently. Or I assumed he did, seeing as he stared me dead in the face for every word I spoke. His eyes could be anywhere and I would genuinely have no way of knowing.

He petted lightly at my hair, gently moving through with each strand.  
Man, he was really enraptured by this wasn't he?

It'd be genuinely stupid to assume that anyone had ever let him willingly stroke their hair like this. Nobody wants that. I'm not even sure if I like this.  
But who am I to stop him, and be stabbed thirty times in the chest with the very blade I have tied to my sweater?  
Actually. I don't think I've seen him with a knife this whole time.

"Do you have your knife?"  
Being met with nothing once more is about what I expected, but I at least thought-  
He pulled his knife from the floor, a thick mix of rust and blood decorating the hilt and most of the lower part of the surface, there it was. In all of it's elderly beauty.  
"Alright cool, that's one question answered." Crisis averted?

With some more food questions, Michael continued to stroke and pet around my face. Pure evil, my ass. Was I even allowed to say that?  
Lost in the "should I consider Michael a sweet child trapped in a child's body or a mass murderer capable only of pure evil" apparently I just stop speaking. And Michael just stopped petting. At rest.  
My hands started to sweat as I placed one on Michael's shoulder, in any attempt to steady myself for the inevitable. It needed to be asked, it'd plagued my mind all morning and afternoon. I wasn't about to let it steep and hang in my hollow mind for much longer.

"Hey, tough question. Why didn't you stab me, snap my neck, or all of the above?"' Lighthearted to mask genuine worry. Michael doesn't say anything. What else is new. He gets up, leaving me on the floor to my own accord.  
He motions with a twitch of his left hand, and I follow his lead. Rising from my seat, I can at least function without shivering my soul out of my body.

He steps into the room I slept in previous, letting the door swing open to allow the smell to escape.  
And so, he just stands there. No explanation, he just stands there. I'm not getting it. I'm not even sure if he's getting it.

At least in these few hours of comfortable silence I've determined at least three things about his personality. He likes hair, soft skin, and casual conversation. A total cuddle-bug, even though you wouldn't ever expect it from someone so muscular, and he loves long walks on the beach.  
Except he doesn't and he's a psychopath with really weird taste.  
Sure, he might actually enjoy petting people and smelling them and all that weird shit, but that's so normal when you think about it. People just happen to do it, while Michael amplifies the shit out of it.

And I have no idea why he decided to lead me in here.  
He stood there, breathing ominously and slightly tilting his head to the right.  
This is not the first time I've reconsidered that he is a murderer.

"I'm...sorry?" The question in my tone is undeniable.  
Michael takes a step towards me. And another.  
Until he walks out the door. Heavy powerwalking away, but he didn't beckon me to follow him this time.  
It would most likely be a fool's errand to follow him further.

I take a good moment before deciding to follow him, like a dumbass. As I reach the curve of the stairs, I can see the open kitchen window.  
Michael had gone. And he didn't cover his tracks, and I was more than welcome to hop out and leave.  
And I wanted to.

Michael is a mystery wrapped in an enigma. Though I'd seen slightly into his world of empty stares and strangely warm nature, he wasn't mine to unravel.  
And this was my only present chance to exit before I got too deep in.  
I had all I needed. I didn't need to creak around and look for my things.  
He was letting me go.

I began to climb up upon the counter top, hands against the cracked tile and soon to the rotted windowsill.

When I felt a hand gingerly wrap around my face and mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaahahah i wanna mcdie  
> this is like  
> 2000 words  
> prolly  
> 500 word minimum per day past the 25th to the 29th  
> god help me  
> hope this ties shit up or whatever  
> haha no fuck you  
> whenever I figure out how to write in a series I can make a sequel  
> hope you all enjoyed
> 
> happy Halloween everyone :)

**Author's Note:**

> michael myers is best  
> if you've ever seen DaddyMyers on DbD that's not me but he's my friend and it's important
> 
> also gimme feedback if you want more  
> i love writing this stuff it just takes a while
> 
> expect a new chapter in the following days to come


End file.
